Make Me A Robot
by Ironic-Swag
Summary: Sherlock has never really thought himself to be worth much - he's the boyfriend of Jim Moriarty, and that is really it. He doesn't have his own worth. Well, until John Watson decides that he's wrong, and will go to extraordinary lengths to convince Sherlock of that. Rating for past rape/non-con (not graphic), past abuse, past drug addiction and very brief self-harm.


_I don't want to be a human anymore,_

 _I'm done._

 _I don't want to make mistakes anymore,_

 _he's won._

 _Tessa Violet, 'Make Me A Robot'._

* * *

"No, no, no!" John hears that obnoxious, loud man cry, laughing through it. "That doesn't count! It wasn't an eyeroll, it was a look at the ceiling!"

They're playing some ridiculous drinking game. One of the students has got hold of a tape from one of their lessons, and for some reason they're drinking every time Sherlock Holmes rolls his eyes. John doesn't really know why he's here, in all honesty; his old classmate from high school suggested he went, 'make some friends', but John does not want to befriend anyone in this abysmal class.

He sighs, sniffing the unidentifiable drink in his cup. Plastic, white, cheap. Part of him expected to see red solo cups, like in the movies, but alas. A shame, he thinks, as he takes a large swallow of something _very_ strong.

Luckily, it goes straight to his head, and he's toeing the line of sobriety in only a few drinks.

So when the _star_ of their entertainment arrives, he barely notices. No, he definitely does not notice the sharp cheekbones, the air of arrogance, yet with a note of insecurity, the elegant posture and he _certainly does not_ notice the slender figure. No, John barely notices Sherlock Holmes.

"Have you come to apologise?" One student – John's blurred mind suddenly conjures up the name Jim Moriarty – stands up, shorter than Sherlock, yet still very much intimidating. "You _don't_ say no to me."

And suddenly everything clicks into place, and Sherlock suddenly looks extremely vulnerable, and everything seems so _wrong_ to John. Sherlock looks so out-of-place and so scared, despite the guards he puts up.

"Yes." Sherlock states, and even John, in his blurry state can hear the tremor in that word.

"Then, let's leave here." Moriarty whispers, and in that moment, with Moriarty gripping Sherlock's wrist in what surely must be a painful grip, Sherlock meets eyes with John. And John sees into his soul, where so much pain and suffering resided.

It's eventually that look that stirs John into action. He stands up, shaky on his own feet, and staggers exaggeratedly to the false mockery of a couple.

"He doesn't want-" John gives Moriarty a push. "To have sex with you."

Moriarty, to none's surprise, looks genuinely speechless, and perhaps even offended. He recovers for a brief, tense pause, Moriarty's group of idiots and the rest of the party staring on.

"So?" And Sherlock, breaking John's heart, genuinely flinches. "Is that a problem?"

"Of course it's a damn problem!" John yells, putting a defensive arm to shield Sherlock, who now stands silent and frankly, shocked. "I'm going to go, Sherlock is coming with me, and you can fuck right off, frankly."

Moriarty doesn't back off, and John sees fucking _red_. All he sees is Sherlock standing behind him, taller than John but looking so damn _tiny_. But he's yet to say a word, yet to voice his real discomfort.

Moriarty takes two more steps forward, cornering Sherlock between him and the crowd. The combination of Moriarty's nerve, the fear of Sherlock, and the crowd being so useless makes John's last nerve snap. His vision clouds, and he socks Moriarty right in the nose.

Moriarty reels halfway across the room, blood pouring from his nose at an alarming rate. In the precious seconds they have before John and Sherlock recover, the two bolt out the door. John grabs Sherlock's hand without really thinking about it all. Together, hands intertwined, they sprint down the hall, panting from exertion, and not thinking about where they were running.

Classrooms pass their vision at a blurry speed. All John could think was, ' _Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock'_ , and the warm of his hand.

"Stop!" Sherlock cries, and John does as asked.

"What?" He pants, his hands on his knees.

"I need to break a minute." Sherlock informs him, leaning his back against the wall, slightly red, like a subtle blush.

Through his heavy breathing, John takes a long look at Sherlock. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, it seems everything may work. They'll fall in love, Moriarty will be gone, and they'll have some fairy-tale ending and everyone will be happy.

But instead, Sherlock averts his glance, his ice blue eyes flicking down, afraid. Sherlock's afraid. Of him. Sherlock is afraid John will do something to him.

This realisation sends a rock down his stomach. Sorrow and longing fill his mind, longing for the teenager who is currently terrified, terrified of him and what he is capable of.

"Sorry, I didn't get your name." Sherlock suddenly announces, not removing his eyes off a spot on the floor.

"John." He's met with a blank stare. "John Watson."

"Well, you know who I am, no doubt." Sherlock laughs a self-deprecating, sorrowful laugh. "What drinking game was it this time?"

"Every time you roll your eyes." John smiles at Sherlock's resulting laugh.

"Ah. That's a new one."

"Look, please don't go back to Moriarty." John begs.

"No, John, you really don't understand." Sherlock looks at him then, really _looks_ at him; all John sees is sorrow, and a far deeper understanding than his age. "I have to. You think I can just _leave_?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Whatever he has on you, I can help you with." Sherlock scoffs at this comment.

"I'm a heroin addict, John. Where else do you think I'm going to get heroin?"

"You don't." John tells him, a derisive laugh from Sherlock in response.

"Have you ever been addicted, John?" At a no, Sherlock continues. "Then you don't know."

"I'm studying medicine. I can _help_. I can get my tutors to help." John looks at Sherlock then, eyes pleading, helpless. " _Please_."

And Sherlock looks at John again, seeing what he didn't see before; the genuine sincerity and kindness that reflects in those eyes, and perhaps even love, though Sherlock maybe thinks he is looking too far into that one.

"Please stay with me. Come stay in my dorm, I have two beds." John's pleading again, and Sherlock can't help but question why John cares quite this much. Was the alcohol clouding his judgement? John pulls out his phone and looks at it. "It's quite late."

"Ah, your brother's alcohol habit getting in the way of her staying at your place?" Sherlock asks, slightly revelling in the shocked, yet impressed, look John adopts.

"How do you know her name?" John asks, after a brief pause of pure shock.

"Your phone. On the back, there's an engravement; 'Harry Watson – from Clara XXX'. Affectionate, but not addressed to you. Thus, it's a second-hand gift. The scratches on the charger hole indicate shaky hands, accumulated over a long period of time, a strong sign of an alcoholic. And the fact that he has gifted it to you rather than keeping it proves he's gotten out of a long-term relationship, with 'Clara', and it is a painful memory, no doubt. He's gotten out of a long-term partnership – of course he's going to have stayed or wanted to stay with you."

"That's—That's amazing!" John stutters. "Absolutely brilliant!"

It's Sherlock's turn to look shocked now - he's gobsmacked by John's positive reaction, something he's never received before.

"Wow—I…No one's ever reacted like that before." Sherlock mutters, mildly red.

"How have people reacted before?" John asks, maybe afraid of the answer.

"I'm a freak." Sherlock says it so bluntly that John literally bursts into laughter.

"I'm sorry…" He splutters, but Sherlock is laughing as well.

For not the first time that night, John and Sherlock's eyes meet, and John has to really push back the urge to just grab the back of his neck and kiss him so passionately that he starts to feel dizzy.

Instead he just smiles.

"John, John, John!" Sherlock's over-stimulated voice yells for not the first time that day. He's coming down from the high. "I'm bored! Bored, bored, bored, bored!"

"Okay, I get it." John doesn't remove his eyes off his textbook.

For the past twelve hours, since Sherlock took residence in his room, John has dedicated himself to research on the decline of Heroin withdrawal. There is too much information he isn't sure he wanted to know, but nonetheless, he powers through. This is more difficult for Sherlock as it is for him. John is just grateful Harry never could make it, because god knows what she would take this situation to mean.

* * *

"JOHN!" John ignores his call. "BORED!"

"Sure." John deadpans.

When the silence happened, John finally looked up. In his hands, Sherlock held a sharp pair of scissors and was inspecting them, fascinated. Slowly, excruciatingly, he rolled his sleeve down, and John had to stop an appalled – but not shocked – gasp. His wrecked arm, destroyed by potentially years of heroin overuse, had not even the tiniest space of clear skin. The places where the syringe had gone in where all up his arm, and the things that hurt the most – the obvious self-harm scars.

"Sherlock." John warned, his voice calmer and steadier than he felt.

"Hm?"

"Put the scissors-" Sherlock blinked at him owlishly. "Down. Please."

"Why?" Sherlock's voice was thick with unshed tears, and he stared horrified at his arm. "I'm nothing more than this. I'm just a whore, a junkie. Do you really tell me you _like_ someone like that, John?"

"Yes." John tells him without even thinking. "I do. Because, Sherlock, you are one of the greatest and most brilliant men I've ever met. And you are not to blame for any of this. I will get you through this, you just have to hold on tight."

The scissors do get put down, but Sherlock is smiling.

John's taken to making written observations of Sherlock's withdrawal. Part of him maybe thinks it is a little cruel, but Sherlock, though different as John he may be, does share a passion for scientific advancement. John is sure, when he's back to his normal self, he'd appreciate the gesture.

 _Day 2: Sherlock, while the manic moods have mostly subsided, still experiences violent mood swings. Case example: flung a lamp (quite expensive, by the way) at a wall in fury, then collapsed into inconsolable tears. I have apologised to my left neighbour, and thanked whatever deity may be up there that I only have one neighbour to apologise to._

But, despite all the gloom, John did have some of his own enjoyable moments. Since the incident, Moriarty had not spoken to either of them. John took five days off his lessons, kindly explaining the situation to his teachers.

Then of course, there was the time Sherlock wanted to teach John to waltz. His gentle hand held his, one arm partially round his stomach, they stepped through the room. Together, it seemed like everything ceased to exist; the whole world, for a few blissful moments, went silent. Their eyes locked, the gentle classical music washing over them, and electricity passed through them.

 _Day 3: Sherlock has taken to a depressive mood today. He was asleep for fourteen hours, which some may take as a blessing and others as a curse, for which I favour the former. I was required to wash his hair myself, as moving was a laborious task at this moment in time for him._

The third day he felt somewhat like a domestic wife.

Sherlock stayed asleep for a long time, during which he had suffered terrible nightmares that struck a heartbroken chord in John. The screaming was no doubt the worst; they shot through his heart, causing him what almost felt like physical pain. During these moments, it was all John could do to hold his hand, wipe his sweaty forehead and hope this would pass.

 _Day 4: Sherlock's physical affects had always been affected by the withdrawal, but today they seem to be at their worst. Though, his emotional state seems to be more stable – mood swings still occur, but a lot less regularly. Trips to the bathroom and vomiting were regular as were bowel movements. Sherlock has also repeatedly complained of pain. Loudly. A lot._

The second bed in John's room has not been made in two days, as Sherlock has barely moved off it. Of course, John has no qualms about the state of his room perhaps suffering a slight appearance issue for the state of his friend.

"John." Sherlock begs. "Please. I need heroin. Just let me go ask…"

"No. You're not moving from that bed, sir."

Sherlock lets out an illegible groan of protest. But John won't crack; he really sincerely cares about Sherlock, even if they have only really known each other for a handful of days. But in those days, John has revealed more of his vulnerable side to Sherlock than he ever has done for anyone; and he has little doubt it is the same on Sherlock's side.

A knock on the door, two raps in succession, makes John copy – almost exactly to the tone, he realises – the groan Sherlock makes, but nonetheless gets up to answer it.

As soon as he opens the door, he attempts to slam it again. Because standing at the doorframe is the one person in the world he would hate to see right now.

Moriarty.

The door swings partially shut, but a foot in the door belonging to the only person he would actually commit murder against, stops it from fully shutting.

"There better be a brilliant _fucking_ reason you are standing at my doorframe, Moriarty."

"Aw, John, I would've thought we're on first name basis, no?" Moriarty gives him a wicked grin that would perhaps be attractive in any other circumstance. "Shall I call you 'Watson' instead? Alas, you know my reason why I am here. No doubt you have my precious 'Holmes' with you?"

Out the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock flinch at the mention of his name, as now he's bolt upright in the bed, despite him rocking slightly from the dizziness.

"I've got a vial of heroin with his name on it!" Moriarty informs them, trailing his voice with honey. Poisonous, deadly honey.

"John…" Sherlock's tired voice pleads, broken, cracked.

"Get away from my door." John threatens, his voice dangerously low.

"Fine, fine. But-" Moriarty grins as he removes his foot. "—Don't think this is just going to be your domestic little paradise. I will make you have my cock again, Sherlock."

John furiously slams the door, the walls of his room rattling slightly from the force. And suddenly, quietly, Sherlock begins to cry, like he didn't want to make a fuss; he'd cried in front of John before, but never like this. The sobs were quiet, almost inaudible, but there was so much pain in each breath. He buried his head in his hands, and John was at his side in practically seconds.

"I thought—I thought I could do this." Sherlock got out, in a hushed voice. Afraid. "But him showing up just proves I can't."

"You dumbass." John groans, but there's love there. "The fact you didn't take any proves you _can_ do this."

Sherlock doesn't respond with anything but more crying, and it's all John can do to hold him, together, they waited for the storm that was Moriarty to pass.

He's whole again. Sherlock feels like his missing pieces have been picked up off the ground, dusted off and put back together, all single-handedly by John Watson. The hole that Moriarty and heroin punched through his heart has been sealed, a turbulent chapter of his life closed with a loving turn of the page.

Sherlock never did move out of John's dorm room. They never found it suitable for him to do so; John had got Sherlock to agree to stay the _fuck_ away from Moriarty, and Moriarty had since not bothered them. Of course, it felt like the calm before the storm.

* * *

"Okay, why are there human _eyes_ in the mini fridge?" John asks, exasperated, yet still surprisingly calm.

"John, honestly, why do you instantly turn to me?" Sherlock teases, a sweet smile playing on his face.

John merely raises his eyebrows, but he's smiling when he closes the fridge door. Sherlock ceases to ignore these small smiles; he catalogues them in his mind palace. There's the 'trying to hide I'm amused' John, 'friendly smile because it's required of me' John, 'I'm hiding how much I hate you' John, 'close to my heart' John, and all the John's he has yet to see.

But one John he's been seeing a lot recently, 'I'm so in love' John.

Perhaps he was reading too far into those looks John gives him – when he really stares, their eyes meet, when it feels too much like a romantic scene. When their hand casually brush, and John doesn't mention it yet pulls his hand away like he's been burned.

It had started to finally feel safe. Sherlock had finally felt he belonged somewhere, and John finally felt like he had someone to belong with. Those are the thoughts that run through Sherlock's mind as he stares at Moriarty, who stands at John's doorframe, expectant, like he is his entire life.

"What-" Sherlock takes a harsh, dry swallow. "What do you want?"

That shark's grin shows up again. Moriarty's smiles are nothing like John's. John's smiles radiate love; Moriarty's smiles give him the childish feeling of wanting to hide.

"Oh, but surely you know?" Moriarty doesn't drop the grin as he says this, and pulls out an unmarked syringe, with 'SHERLOCK' written in black, bold letters. "It's got your name on it."

"I don't want it. Go away." Sherlock says, in his boldest voice, ignoring the uncontrollable fear-induced shivering.

"Your consent doesn't really matter to me, I'm not going to lie."

"James Moriarty!" The shocked voice of Dean Jack yells. "What the hell is going on?"

"I did tell you." John steps out from behind the wall, joined by the Dean soon after. "Sherlock, you did so well. I'm so proud."

Sherlock gives him a shaky, but brave grin, and John is in front of him in almost seconds, a defensive arm protecting him from Moriarty.

"I have your actions on tape, James Moriarty, so what I want, is for you to leave. Not just here, oh no, I want you to leave this school. And the country, if possible." John growls. "What I have on you could be enough to send you to prison for a _long_ time."

All he's given is a shocked silence, before Moriarty slowly narrows his eyes angrily.

"You have five seconds to get the fuck away." John warns.

Moriarty finally scoffs, and walks away from the door frame. As though Moriarty was the only thing keeping him up, Sherlock collapses, but John is there to catch him, and he harmlessly falls into his open arms.

"You were so brave. You did so well." John consoles him, deliberately tangling his hands in Sherlock's hair. "Jack, do you mind ensuring Moriarty leaves the school?"

"Yes, yes, sure." Jack stutters, giving John an admirable look. "I've rarely met anyone to go so far to protect a friend, let alone an almost stranger."

"He is my friend." John says without thinking. "He is."

Jack gives him one final smile before leaving.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" John asks, placing an arm on his back, between his shoulder blades.

"No." Sherlock said, honestly. "I can't stop reliving what he did."

"I'm glad you were honest with me." John smiled at him. "Eventually you'll recover. And I'll be with you every step of the way, I swear."

And Sherlock kisses him then. He doesn't fight, but he leans into Sherlock.

He's so warm, and the world is so cold.

* * *

Hi! Thank you so much for reading, and if it doesn't trouble you too much, please leave a review - positive or negative, or even just to say hi, it doesn't matter!

I'm not a medical professional, and I have limited knowledge on medical issues. Any effects of heroin on the body depicted in this work of fiction has been researched through the internet and may not be entirely accurate.

Obviously, I don't own Sherlock - BBC's or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's.

Edit: Fixed the problem with time/place changes. I did have a little dash thingy in there, but it just didn't show up and I didn't notice. That kids is why you check your work once it's been uploaded.


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